


Youngest

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Angst and Tragedy, Brother Feels, Canonical Character Death, Coping, Deathfic, Hurt/Comfort, I may or may not be crying, Moria, Multi, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brother Óin can’t be dead, no, it’s not possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youngest

Óin cringed as he heard the screams and shrieks on the other side of the weakening door.

They’d already lost so many friends to the Orcs—Frár, Náli, Flói...Balin. Óin lodged an axe against the door handle and turned toward the precious coffin in which the Lord of Moria lay. Running a hand along the dusty edge, he whispered to the inscription.

“The Orcs have belittled us again, cousin. Our colony is lost. I’m so sorry—”

“Óin, the South Gate is taken!” Ori called out in alarm. The young scribe burst into the room with the Book of Mazarbul, the Death Book, close to his chest. “I can hear the drums! We cannot get out! They’re coming!”

Óin whirled, seizing Ori’s arms. Underneath the chainmail he could feel the lad’s wool sweater. _I told him over and over again to wear something sturdier..._

“I’m going to the Western Door to see if there’s any escape. You can protect him, can you not?”

At this, Ori’s eyes landed on the coffin. Biting his lip, Ori said agonizingly, “We’ve failed, Óin. If Balin could see this destruction—”

On impulse, Óin hugged the boy. “He can, lad. He can see it just fine from the Halls of Waiting and I’m sure he’s thanking Mahal profusely for letting him go sooner than this! Stay safe!” With that, the elder Dwarf took off running down the hall.

With each thud of his boots against stone, Óin heard another drumbeat from the Orcs. When he reached the Western Door, Óin grasped the large handles and dug his heels into the earth. As the Door creaked open, Óin looked up just in time to see a massive wave of water and tentacles.

Óin’s last scream never reached Ori’s ears; the scribe’s heart had already been pierced with ten black arrows. His ink-tipped quill lurched against the Mazarbul Book’s pages as Ori slid down against Balin’s coffin, shuddering through the painful throes of death.

When Óin and Ori found themselves in the Halls of Waiting, Balin was waiting to draw them into a tearful embrace. The cause they died for was lost.

* * *

The word comes to Glóin and at first he refuses to believe it. His brother Óin can’t be dead, no, it’s not possible. Then, as he stumbles down the halls of Erabor, passing the chambers of his friends, Glóin can hear the howling of Dori, Nori, and Dwalin.

Their brothers are gone too, Glóin realizes. Shock and panic kicks in and he runs. He is supposed to be a hero, a mighty warrior, but right now as he locks himself into his room all of it is stripped away. Now he is a terrified younger brother, searching for some kind of comfort.

That one kind of comfort only an older brother could give.

As he sits there panting in the dark, Glóin hates himself, hates his parents for having him after Óin. He is the youngest of the family of Gróin, the one to last after all the others have gone.

Gróin, lost to a heart attack.

Neanélla, lost to Azanulbizar.

And now Óin, lost to Khazad-dûm’s Watcher.

As the days wear on, Glóin finds that he can’t enter the deeper areas of Erabor. The caverns...Glóin once found solitude in the silence, but now it all seems like Moria. All the caverns cry out with Óin’s lost voice.

What hurts worse, though, are Gimli’s questions. “Adad, when is Uncle Óin coming home? He promised he’d be back to visit within fifteen months!”

Gwulla, Glóin’s wife, can see the anguish welling in her husband’s eyes. “Your Adad is busy, Gimli, and it’s past your bedtime,” Gwulla sighs, guiding her son to bed.

The lad must know eventually, Glóin realizes. But ‘eventually’ is not now. Now the pain is too stark, Óin’s voice is too clear in the deep.

Soon Glóin makes a gravestone, carving it with the same gentle care he used with his brother himself. He places it in a clump of healing plants to honor his brother’s profession and then fishes around in the satchel strapped across his chest. It was a miracle of the ravens to find it in the puddles of blood and water by the Western Door of Moria...

“Don’t suppose you’ll be needing this up there in the Waiting Halls,” Glóin whispers brokenly as he hangs the hearing trumpet on the edge of the gravestone. “But we found it for you.” He traces the letters of _Óin_ and wishes for a moment that Dwarves were allowed to write their true inner names on their graves. If they were, the Dwarven name _Hyübirâl_ would be beneath his brother's Mannish name. “Wish you were around to help my heart, brother. Aches like you wouldn’t believe—” Glóin whirls, but doesn’t walk away. The fact that his eyes are closed does absolutely nothing to stop the tears that stream into his beard.

Then someone clamps their hands around him and pulls him into a snug embrace.  Glóin doesn’t know who it is, but he starts shaking violently.

“It’s not fair!” Dwalin hisses savagely, having just carved a gravestone himself. “ _It’s not fair!_ ”

Dori and Nori come next and wrap their arms awkwardly around the pair. They bear a different kind of grief, seeing life that their little one will not, but now that Nori is a youngest he clings to his older brother. Dwalin and Glóin _grew up_ as youngest; they’re used to that elder presence that is now gone.

Soon enough, there is one more braid alongside the ones of mourning that are woven into their beards: a familial braid. They have adopted each other as brothers. Dori and Nori work to be that presence needed by Dwalin and Glóin in their bereavement.

But Glóin still won’t go down to the caverns.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hyübirâl, Óin's Dwarven name, meaning 'The Listener'


End file.
